A Game Of Trust
by MandaPanda1
Summary: When Sark shows up at Sydney's door one night, neither of them could have predicted the chain of events that would follow
1. Prologue

Title: A Game of Trust   
Author: Amanda   
Rating: PG-13 in future chapters, but a strong PG for now.   
Ships: S/S   
  
Prolouge:   
  
When I was a little kid at summer camp we used to play this game where everyone would stand shoulder to shoulder in a tight circle with one person isolated in the center. I remember being in the center of that circle, arms folded across my chest and eyes squeezed shut.   
  
The camp counsellor called it 'a game of trust' because she then told me to just let myself fall, trusting the other campters to catch me. What I remember most vividly about that moment was how time seemed to stop from the instant I leaned back into the open air until someone's hands finally reached out and caught me.   
  
It still strikes me as odd that this was the first thing that came to mind when I answered my door after midnight one uncharacteristically cold night and found Sark standing before me, telling me to pack a suitcase because we had to leave... 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One:   
  
"How did you know I live here?" I ask irritatedly even as I let Sark follow me into my room to watch me haphazardly throwing articles of clothing into a suitcase.   
  
I didn't even know why I was packing...   
  
"What the hell is this about?" I ask, forcing my suitcase shut and sighing in frustration when it pops open again.   
  
Without a word he crosses the room and holds the suitcase shut, allowing me to fasten it before it can spring open again. I don't bother to thank him, but instead opt for pinning has hand against the suitcase with my own, keeping him from trning away from me, and then spin to face him.   
  
I immediatly regret the awkward position I've gotten myself into with the back of my legs pinned against the foot of the bed, his face inches from my own, and his arm crossing behind me to where I held it pinned, causing him to have to lean even closer. I narrow my eyes under his stare and wait for the witty remark that never comes.   
  
"Do you have everything?" he asks nodding over my shoulder at the suitcase. I let go of his hand and look at him puzzledly, trying to remember if I'd ever heard him say anything to me, or anyone else for that matter, vefore that wasn't laced with sarcasm.   
  
Suddenly I'm angry, "You can't honestly expect me to just pack my things and run with no explanation or reasoning.."   
  
"You aren't safe here! Isn't that enough?" I couldn't help but be nervous at the way he kept glancing from my clock to my bedroom window.   
  
"And you expect me to take your word for it? You've after all done so much to earn my trust..."   
  
A car drove by outside, it's headlights splashing light across my room and for a brief moment illuminating Sark's face. The expression he wore wasn't quite one of fear, but it was the closest to him not being fully composed that I'd ever see.   
  
"We've both been set up Ms. Bristow!" he told me as he spun around and knelt before my tv and VRC. Moments later I heard something plastic fall to the floor.   
  
"Hey!"   
  
"You've been set up," he repeated with emphasis by throwing something at my feet. I picked it up but in the darkness could hardly see it, and told him to flip the light switch.   
  
"Get the light," I repeated more loudly, but nothing happened when he flipped the swith repeatedly.   
  
"Your power's been cut. You can stay a minute longer and discover first hand that I've told you the truth, or you can trust me and we run. Now."   
  
Heart pounding I raced to the window to open it and pop the screen, shoving the object from my VCR into my pocket.   
  
"What is that thing?" I whispered as I removed the screen from the window and leaned it silently against the wall. Scanning the area I saw that no one was there and motioned for him to come closer.   
  
Once outside we ran for about a mile in silence before he stopped me to answer my question. I surveyed the area and realized we were standing in an alley behind a grocery store.   
  
"It's a camera," he told me breathlessly, wiping tiny beads of sweat from his forehead.   
  
"But why?" I watch him pull carkeys from his pocket, and for the first time I notice his car in the alley.   
  
So we hadn't just been running aimlessly...   
  
Once inside the car- acutely aware that I'm wearing nothing but a tanktop and pajama pants- I hug my knees to my chest and ask him about the camera again, already feeling a pit form in my stomach. I don't want to hear this...   
  
"Blackmail," he answers simply, putting the car in drive. "Confirmation."   
  
Vaughn, this is about Vaughn. A feeling of violation quickly turns to a sickening fear and the whole world seems to spin at Sark's words.   
  
Squeezing my eyes shut against the tears, I sit in silence until I once again trust myself to speak.   
  
"Where is he?" I ask weakly.   
  
Sark's lack of an answer was an answer in itself, and I'm far too numb to cry... 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter 2:  
  
Somehow I slept. Against my better judgement I fell asleep even knowing I was in a car with a man who had tried to take my life numerous times until I felt a hand on my shoulder some time later. Trying to open my eyes I realized I must have been crying in my sleep, for my eyes stung and it was difficult to open them at first.   
  
"Where are we?" I ask, not facing him. I won't let him see me cry.   
  
"LAX, and as stunning as you may be barefoot in plaid pajamas, you should change before we try to board a plane."   
  
"I'm sorry if I neglected to grab my suitcase before we jumped out of a window..."   
  
He nods towards the backseat, unaffected by my sarcasm, "There's a change of clothing and a wig in the bag. I'll meet you infront of Terminal 4, gate 47 in fifteen minutes."   
  
It's a mystery to me why I've gone along with this so far. I can hear my father's voice in my head. Have you completely taken leave of your senses?! Maybe I have. I've yet to learn who I'm running from, and if this is a trap I've bought into it hook, line, and sinker.   
  
My father once told me that any weakness the enemy could find would be found and used against me. He'd said this with a sadness in his eyes that made me certain that he was thinking of mom. I'd naively convinced myself that I had no weaknesses, atleast not any that anyone would know to take advantage of, but I know now that that was never true. Vaughn was my one true weakness. All it took was a vague hint of harm coming to him, and I'm running with the enemy, believing his every word.   
  
"You still haven't given me a single reason to believe anything you've said," I tell Sark dryly, thinking it an odd thing to say.   
  
Apparently he does as well, "And yet, you're still here."   
  
"Who am I running from?"   
  
"It's no secret I'm keeping from you Sydney, but there isn't time for lengthy explanations. This is your one chance- our one chance- to make Sloane pay for what he's done, and it's crucial that we catch that flight!" His voice is once again void of sarcasm, and has taken on a tone I've never heard before. Either he's serious, or he's first in line for an Oscar. Oddly, I'm not leaning towards the latter.   
  
"You've still given me no reason to believe I'm not walking into a trap," I point out, though secretly I don't feel this is the case. "How do I know that by getting on that plane I'm not going to be delivered directly into Sloane's hands?"   
  
He looks at me unblinking, his blue eyes holding my attention and not allowing me to turn away, "You will be handed to Sloane, but I promise you- you'll have the upper hand. You have no reason to take my word Sydney, but I'm not setting you up for a fall here."   
  
He's once again trying to pursuade me to be on that plane when it takes off, telling me that he'll explain when there's more time. What he doesn't understand is that he's had me all along; at this point I have nothing to lose. I lean towards him, my voice as icy cool as his eyes, "I'll be on that plane, but I swear to God if you're trying to play me I won't hesitate to kill you!"   
  
My threat is followed by an awkward silence. Those damned eyes are staring straight through me again, making me shiver. He's way too close but I don't pull away; every encounter with him is a battle that I'm determined to win.   
  
Finally, he breaks the spell by turning away and speaking, "I expected no less."   
  
And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the car to change into my new disguise. Sighing, I reach for the bag in the back seat... 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter 3:  
  
I entered the airport minutes later as Melissa Parker, a woman with short strawberry blonde hair who thankfully wasn't known for walking about scantily clad. My 'disguise' is nothing more than a fitted black teeshirt, a pair of bluejeans, black boots, and glasses.   
  
Entering Terminal 4 I realized that I'd taken a little too long to make the transformation from Sydney Bristow to Melissa Parker, as Sark was already halfway through the baggage and security checks.   
  
Upon seeing me he sent an irritated look my way. I might have just hurried to his side, but I knew that in light of recent events I would have been stopped by security guards immediatly, and that was a scene Sark wouldn't have appreciated. Nor would I.   
  
As awkward as this entire situation was, I wanted nothing more than for things to go smoothly, and so I took my place at the end of the line and waited for my turn to have my luggage (there wasn't much, only what Sark had put together for me before he'd even showed up at my door) rummaged through.   
  
He was waiting for me on the other side of the baggage check, my ticket in hand. I still didn't know where we were going, but when I looked at the little piece of paper I couldn't hide my suprise...   
  
"Russia?!"   
  
He nodded. I still didn't know what we were looking to accomplish, but I had begun to make some connections. We were going to my mother's country, to find something that Sloane apparantly wanted and could be used against him.   
  
Sark spun away from me to get in line to board the plane, but I grabbed his wrist and whispered harshly, "This has to do with The Prophecy doesn't it? And my mother?"   
  
"It always does," he answered simply, pulling his hand from mine, and wouldn't say another word about it despite all of my questioning.   
  
When we took our seats on the plane I knew it was going to be a long flight... 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter 4:  
  
Looking through the smudged window at the endless expanse of ocean below it's hard not to imagine a small child on her first flight, pressing her hands against the window in awe of how small the world appears from so high up.   
  
I must have appeared the same to Dixon on our first mission; not only because I'd never before flown over an ocean, but because I must have radiated pride and patriotism at knowing that I was helping my country. But somewhere in the midst of finding Danny in a cold, white bathtub dyed blood red; learning that my acts of patriotism only benefited a deceitful, hateful man; and spinning lie after lie to the people I love, my fascination with the crystal blue water faded. It's funny how before I found out the truth I never seemed to notice the smudges on the glass either...   
  
"Something troubling you?" Sark's cool voice interrupts my thoughts, and I jump in suprise. There's no reason for me to respond to his question after such a telling reaction, and I'm more than just a little bothered at how on edge he makes me feel. It's an uneasy, unfamiliar feeling that isn't at all like being face to face with Sloane.   
  
"I'll take that as a yes," he says with an odd smile, no doubt referring to the way I'd started just a moment before. Then he took my hand in his own and kissed it, "everyone gets nervous on their first fight, love."   
  
Had he not been Anthony Parker, Melissa's wife, I would have snatched my hand away, shared a few choice words, and gone back to staring out the window- denying the shiver that went down my spine when his lips brushed my skin.   
  
But as far as our cover was concerned that wasn't an option, and so I flash an embarrassed smile at him and didn't fight the color rising to my cheeks. It wasn't an overly difficult response considering the odd look his eyes had taken when he brought my hand to his lips, catching me off guard with a look of affection. Realizing my hand was still in his I pulled it away subtly and brought it back to the window, looking down at the ocean and sighing.   
  
I didn't neccessarily have to be Sydney to get some answers.   
  
"I just don't understand why you're dragging me on a business trip to Russia. You'll be in meetings the entire time, and I'll be sitting alone in a hotel room-"   
  
Sark sighed, irritated by what I was trying to do. "My employer wants to meet you Melissa..." he paused, deciding on a choice of words, "you'll be with me more than you think."   
  
"So, he knows I'm coming?"   
  
"No, but he's wanted to meet you for some time now. I doubt he'll mind that you're with me."   
  
A long silence passed before either of us spoke again. I felt some comfort in knowing that Sloane had no knowledge of this flight, but I still felt a sense of uneasiness deep in my stomach. What had Sloane done to cause Sark to turn away? And if I searched even further, there was still a lingering fear that this could all be an elaborate setup that would lead me right into the hands of the enemy. And the CIA would never know I was gone.   
  
"You should get some sleep. It's a long flight, and it's going to be a busy day tomarrow," Sark said gently, in a way that made me feel that he didn't wish to startle me again.   
  
I nodded, not believing that I'd ever fall asleep with so many thoughts clamouring for attention in my head, but I was more tired than I realized and within minutes fell into a restless sleep. 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter 5:  
  
_Comfort. Lying beside Vaughn in my bed I feel so completely, and wholly safe.  
  
I'm wrapped in his arms with my back warm against his chest. Carefully turning in his arms to see his face, I'm suprised but not upset by the peacefully sleeping figure I'm gazing at. Sark.  
  
I break into a smile and kiss his forehead. His mouth curls into a slight smile in his sleep and I roll over in his arms again, his heart once again beating against my back.   
  
His hand is just under my chest, and I take it in my own and am suprised to feel cold metal. A knife in his hand held against my stomach. Panic sets in as I slide his hand away from me and see the trail of blood on my white tanktop before I feel the searing pain in my stomach.   
  
My fingernails dig into his hand, still in my own, still wrapped around the knife, until they're buried in his flesh.   
  
His breathing changes in my ear and I can tell that he's now awake.   
  
'I trusted you...' I murmer in awe as his arm tightens around me._   
  
"Christ! Sy- Melissa, let go!" I blink my eyes open at the harsh sound of a man's voice, not instantly realizing the grip I have on his hand.   
  
I must have grabbed his hand in my sleep. It's something that I'd always managed to do.   
  
Like in my dream my fingernails have torn into Sark's skin, and his blood is actually seeping from under my neatly painted fingernails.  
  
It's all too disorienting to try to slip into my cover story, push my nightmare aside, and let go of his hand all at once when I've been awake for only seconds. All I can manage is a quiet, "Oh God..." as I watch him pry his hand from mine.   
  
The few people around us that are awake turn and stare before turning away quickly, and one look in Sark's eyes makes it apparant that he doesn't want any more attention cast on us than what already exists.   
  
Gathering my thoughts I speak hurriedly, vaguely aware of what I'm saying, "Oh God.. Honey, I'm so sorry. I had a horrible dream," I lean into his arms like a frightened child and will myself not to flinch as he folds them around me.   
  
"I told you I hated flying," I murmer into his chest, my heart beating madly. "How much longer do we have to be up here?"   
  
He smooths my hair absently as he speaks, a comforting gesture if it had come from anyone else, "Only another hour or so. You'll be alright, love..."   
  
Nodding, I close my eyes for the benefit of those watching; a frightened woman comforted by the man she loves. To all appearances I was asleep, safe in Sark's arms. Only he knew otherwise, my heart pounding against his chest, the way I fidgeted almost inperceptably in his arms for the rest of the flight.  
  



	7. Chapter Six

I thought that once we got off the plane things would be better, less awkward. Atleast we could have an open conversation about the situation without the obstacle of cover stories. It would have been so much easier if I could even begin to fanthom what the 'situation' was...  
  
As I sat in the passenger seat of our far too expensive rental car, I tried desperatly to string together something to say while watching as the scenery whipped by; he drove far too fast but was always in complete control of the car so it was hard to worry about that.   
  
I had plenty of other things to worry about. A question that would get answers was at the top of my priority list, a saucy remark to show that I wasn't frightened by this turn of events, that he wasn't in control of me like he was of the car that he whipped around sudden, sharp curves with ease. The problem was that I could think of nothing coherent, and the strained silence was too much to bear on top of my frustration.  
  
He must have been in the same mindset as me, reaching for the dial on the radio at the same time as I did. I pulled my hand back as if I'd just been shocked, but he just gestured at the radio with a slight wave of his hand, "Be my guest..."  
  
I spun the dial past a bubble gum pop station, alternative, a classical station with a glance at Sark, various Russian singers or news channels, and turned the dial back when I heard a familar english voice.  
  
_If I let you get too close you'll set your spell on me... So darlin' I just wanna say, just in case I don't come through... I was on to every play... I just wanted you..._  
  
I can't help but laugh a nervous, strained laugh at the irony of it all as I turn off the radio, silently damning Fiona and catching the slight twitch in Sark's lip as he attempts to hide a smile.  
  
"Nothing good on the radio?" his voice holds amusement at our unspoken joke, and I know he's not mocking me. I laugh again, but the lyric keeps replaying in my head, making me paranoid. We haven't been together but a day, and he's already haunting my dreams, gaining my trust though I know he's anything but worthy.  
  
"What happened on the plane?" he asks carefully, taking advantage of the break in silence.  
  
_I dreamt I was in bed with you..._  
  
"Nothing, just... nothing." My ability to lie never fails to diminish when I'm around him, and I'm conveniently short on punchy remarks when they'd now be very useful as a shield.   
  
He smiles, "What remains of my hand would beg to differ... You can talk to me, Sydney. I know I've done nothing to merit the privilege, but I must admit I'm starved for conversation."  
  
Starved for conversation? This from the man that kills in cold blood probably five out of every ten people he meets.   
  
"I'm not responsible for your lonliness. The penalties for your career choice aren't my problems," the words are carefully clipped, anger bubbling just beneath them. It's a strange comfort to be back on this level with him; adversaries, enemies. A torn safety net mending itself with each cold remark. It's a twisted comfort to look at him as a cold blooded killer once again and the thought of his lips on my skin, and the vivid dream of his body against mine are like foggy memories of years ago. Easily forgotten.  
  
"I could say the same to you," his British accent smooths over the statement, and his white hot rage is only apparent by the way he jerks the car around the next turn causing my right shoulder to smash into the car door. I wince, knowing I've struck a nerve with him, and I'm suddenly very frightened of this near stranger beside me, but show no signs of it.  
  
"Your 'career choices' have taken the lives of how many loved ones, Sydney? Your fiance, Noah, and handler makes three. Am I not right?"  
  
It's all I can do to not choke on the lump in my throat, and hot tears stream freely down my reddened cheeks. _"How dare you!"_ There's so much more for me to say, but it all gets stuck and I can't fight the convulsions that shake my body with each round of sobs.  
  
Out of the corner of my eye I see his lips part shakily as if he has something to say. He's overstepped a line between us by about a mile, and it's obvious that he knows there's a point of no return, where an apology will only be an insult because it can never begin to pacify the situation that's been created.  
  
"You made _choices_ that put you into this life, Sydney. You think I'd have chosen this for myself? That I like blood on my hands?" his voice is strained and I wonder if he's even talking to me anymore, and for how long he's kept this to himself.   
  
"Sometimes you adapt to the life you've been given- forced into- because it's all you can do to live another day," he continues quietly, voice raw, "You were atleast privileged with a bloody choice."  
  
Somehow the statement doesn't sound bitter or selfish, but truthful. Atleast in his mind it's truthful. He has no idea...  
  
We fall back into a charged silence for only God knows how long. It's the first time I've seen Sark ruled by his emotions. I've know doubt that it's the first time that he's let his emotions be seen. No one knows what to say, but I feel the need to make my own confession before this car ride is over.  
  
"CIA... SD-6. I had no choice in any of it. I thought I did, but it was chosen for me and I never even knew it... I was like a Goddamned robot and somebody just had to flip a switch- mention being a spy. I was _programmed._ You can't possibly understand what it feels like to stumble across the fact that your path in life was predeterminded from the time you were a _child._ You can't possibly know."  
  
He sighs heavily, and I flinch at the realization. I want to stop him, tell him he doesn't have to say it, but it's too late.  
  
"We both should learn to not make assumptions..."  
  



	8. Chapter Seven

_"How do you know about Project Christmas?"  
  
"Through you..."  
  
"Through me? What the hell do you mean by that?"  
  
"During my 'alliance' with Sloane, my sole purpose was to keep tabs on you. That included researching your past... Along the way, I stumbled across information about myself and my participation in Project Christmas-"  
  
"What else do you know about me? What else have you 'researched'?"  
  
"Sydney, please don't-"  
  
"I need to know! You owe me this much."  
  
"I owe you nothing!"  
  
"Tell me or I walk. Your choice."  
  
"You've come too far to just leave."  
  
"Tell me- if you know so much about me- do you really believe that?"_  
  
The list he ran off monotonously accounted for everything from my favorite food, to every CIA counter mission I've ever attempted, to The Prophecy. It would have been easy to believe that he felt nothing about stealing such details of my life, but for the fact that he refused to look me in the eyes.  
  
The Prophecy... I'd asked him if he'd reported his knowledge of my face- or that of my mother- on the Rambaldi page to Sloane. He told me no, and I believe him though I couldn't get the conversation out of my head as I scaled a rickety ladder outide of an old Russian museum.  
  
_'When you reach the roof there'll be a small door that drops down into the attic. It's always been an emergency exit to the roof, but you'll be entering the building through it. Once inside, I'll give you further instructions.'_  
  
Sark's instructions replayed in my mind as I took a small vile out of my pack and poured it carefully on the padlock on the door. It hissed and sizzled before crumbling at my feet. Gingerly opening the door, I entered the dark room and descended a handful of stairs until I felt a wooden floor below me. Assessing the room, I noted a door to my left and various wooden chests and boxes strewn about the room.  
  
I hated walking into situations blindly like this, but what Sark had said was true. If I was to be caught, it was safer for both of us that I knew as little as possible. A morbid thought, but it was true none the less.  
  
"Okay, I'm in," I whispered, turning on my comm with one hand as I pulled the door quietly shut with the other. "Now what?"  
  
"Stay where you are. Someone just entered downstairs," he spoke conversationally, as if we were just two friends chatting on the telephone, and my life wasn't in any way endangered by the unknown person now lurking about in the rooms below me. "I'm going to check it out."  
  
"No! Don't bother. I'll get what we need and get out before anyone even knows I'm here. Don't risk giving us both away."  
  
"You should learn to supress your ego, Miss Bristow. It will get you killed sooner or later," the familiar cockyness and mocking tone had weaved itself back into his voice, and I instantly found myself missing the sincere Sark from the car.  
  
"You, of all people, shouldn't be lecturing me about egos!" I whispered harshly into the comm. "Now tell me, what am I retrieving, and where do I find it."  
  
He paused for a moment, and all I could hear was a dull, crackling static in my ear. My heart pounded as various scenarios of Sark being captured and me being stranded raced through my head. After what seemed like an eternity he spoke again, and I couldn't hide the sigh of relief that escaped at the sound of his voice, "Near the west wall there should be a loose floor board. Remove it and retrieve the box underneath, then get out of there _quietly._"  
  
"That's all I needed to know," I told him, and foolishly turned off the comm before he could argue.  
  
Silently, I padded across the room on hands and knees, listening for footsteps on the staircase behind the wooden door to my left, careful to make no noise as I felt for the loose board. A smile crept on my face when my hand slipped across the loose board, but it didn't last long. A matter of seconds later I heard the sound of footsteps on the staircase, and my stomach lurched.  
  
"There's someone on the staircase," I flicked my comm back on and whispered to Sark, fighting to keep my voice from shaking, "Is the door on the north wall locked?"  
  
"Yes, no... maybe. Sydney, we've been made! Forget the box, and get out of there."  
  
"No! I can handle one guard."  
  
"Dammit Sydney, get out of there _now!_ The man I saw through the window is Sloane's!!"  
  
There wasn't time to respond, for at that moment the door swung open and I was looking up at a man with a gun, a small metal box tucked guiltly under one arm.  
  



	9. Chapter Eight

Fight or flight kicks in instantly, and I scramble to my feet. My only thought is to get out of the attic without ever losing possession of the box tucked under my arm, and fighting this very armed man, from the floor, without a weapon myself was too much of a disadvantage. Barely standing, I turn my back to the man and sprint for the steps leading to the roof.   
  
Adrenaline and fear twists my perception of time, and it seems like hours later when my hand finally slaps the dusty, wooden surface of the door. I'm almost suprised that it took so long before the sound of a gunshot rang out, and a searing pain tore through my right shoulder blade, knocking me offbalance as I tumbled down the steps and away from salvation.   
  
Bracing myself with my hands, I try to push myself back to a standing position, but my right shoulder protests by shooting pain that can't be ignored through my arm and across my back. Wincing and using the steps for support, I finally manage to get to my feet, but another shot rings out before I can turn to face my attacker, and I'm sure that this is it. This is the point where he hits his target perfectly- a well placed bullet to the back of my head and then nothing. Would Sark feel guilty for predicting this, that my ego would be the death of me?  
  
Something falls heavily behind me, and I spin around to see my attacker lying in the doorway; Sark standing behind him on the staircase, gun in hand.  
  
"Let's go!"  
  
Nodding, I reach for what I dropped when I crashed to the bottom of the staircase. It's excruciatingly painful to even move my arm and lift the intricately carved box, and Sark raises an eyebrow when I wince. Aside from the gunshot, I can also feel several bruises, minor by comparison, forming on my arms and legs from the fall.  
  
"My God..." he murmers in shock (an expression that suprises me from someone who has put bullets in so many people) and hurries to my side, "You've been shot!"  
  
I nod- still dazed by the pain- and hold the box out to him, a pathetic attempt at repayment for saving my life, "I found it..."  
  
Without a word he helps me to my feet and wraps an arm around my waist, leading me down the stairs and back to the car parked in an alley down the street.  
  
"You should have that checked out," he tells me when we get back to the car. We're driving again, though I have no idea as to where our destination might be. All I'm sure of is that this isn't the way we came.  
  
"If you mean a doctor, no," I shake my head, and instantly regret it for the pain that follows, "I don't want to draw any more attention to us. Sloane will already be suspicious when that agent never returns..."  
  
He nods, as close to admitting I'm right as he can allow himself to be, and continues to drive.   
  
Sometime later he pulls up to a quaint, but lovely hotel and helps me out of the car. He takes off his jacket and places it gingerly over my shoulders to hide the blood seeping from the wound and leads me inside with an arm around my waist.  
  
Our room is on the second floor, and I can't help but smile when Sark opens the door and leads me inside. Moonlight pours in through a bay window illuminating a large bed with beautiful white sheets and pillows trimmed in gold. A small couch in the corner is apholstered with the same gold on white fabric and all the woodwork of the room from the carved legs of the couch, to the headboard of the bed, to the end tables are rich mahogany.  
  
"Sydney?" his voice crashes me back to reality. Sark is removing his coat from my shoulders. The blood and the pain of the gunshot is still very real.  
  
"I'm sorry..." I murmer, knowing he said something else but not hearing a word of it.  
  
He tilts his head towards the bathroom door, "The bathroom is over here. We should get your shoulder cleaned up." I've no arguements with that and allow him to lead me to the bathroom which is every bit as beautiful as the rest of the room, and adorned in similar colors.  
  
"Your shirt, Miss Bristow," he says without looking at me after a minute of standing in awkward silence. Funny, I was 'Sydney' in the other room...  
  
Removing my fitted black sweater requires an almost ridiculous amount of effort when moving my shoulder is so painful, and the thought to ask for help races through my mind before quickly being stomped out. Ignoring the pain, I pull the turtleneck over my head in one movement and gauge Sark's reaction in the mirror as I let it fall in a heap on the floor and am left wearing a revealing black bra. His lip twitches almost inperceptively, but his eyes remain focused on the blood pouring down my back.   
  
My breathing hitches when he places one hand gently on my arm, dabbing at the wound with a damp towel with the other. Steadying my breathing, I examine his reflection in the mirror. His blue eyes are focused on my shoulder as he carefully applies an antibiotic that stings more than I'd ever admit.   
  
He seems almost vulnerable at moments like these, though the word would more accurately describe me; standing in a room with my enemy, without even the thin layer of my sweater between us. It's hard to clearly call him my enemy now though. Since our conversation in the car things have gotten complicated, and now he's gingerly dressing my wounds. He saved my life. It's all too much to process, and I gasp when he looks up at the mirror and catches me watching him.  
  
"You're lucky. It was only a graze wound..." he explains distantly, mostly for the sake of filling the silence. His breath is warm on my skin, but I shiver anyways and entertain the though of leaning back into his arms and the warmth of his body, but I turn to face him instead.  
  
"Thank you..." the words weren't meant to sound as breathless as they did, and neither did what happened next, but before I knew it I was leaning into him, his hands resting on the small of my back, and his lips crashed into mine. I tangled my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to me and deepening the kiss. Then, all of a sudden, a sob escaped against his mouth and he pulled away, and I saw his icy blue eyes filled with confusion.. desire.. hurt.  
  
"Sydney-" I silence him by pressing a finger to his lips before turning and fleeing the too small bathroom. For the first time the events of the past few days hit me full force and I can't fight the tears. I throw myself down on the small couch, and he cautiously sits down beside me putting an arm around my shoulder and letting my cry against his chest until my eyes burn and my throat is parched, frantically trying to explain all the things rushing through my head that in no way make sense as I speak them.   
  
There's nothing for him to say, so he simply listens, never saying a word. 


	10. Chapter Nine

All of the secrets of which I wasn't allowed to speak, and all of the things that I wasn't supposed to feel were spilling from me without my control. Questions I'm afraid of refuse to remain unasked.  
  
"What happened to him?" I choked on the words as I leaned over Sark threateningly, pulling away from his embrace. It was the first coherently strung thought regarding Vaughn that I had managed to voice. Even between sobs and without his name Sark knew who I was referring to.  
  
"Sydney, please-" though he sounded completely calm, it was none the less a twisted and undeniable pleasure to have Sark pleading with me. An unusual change of events as the man who had made me plead for my own life- and Vaughn's as well- was now under my control.  
  
Reflecting on the numerous times he had threatened my life, it was hard to believe I had just kissed him. He was dangerous, but then again, wasn't I as well?  
  
"Answer me," my voice is not my own- icy and commanding like my mother's. The tears have long since stopped but leave a stinging sensation in my eyes. Straddling his legs, I pin him in the corner of the couch and lean closer, "I killed Vaughn, didn't I?"  
  
He holds my eyes with his own and answers evenly, "I don't understand..."  
  
"Yes you do! Just like Noah... Danny. I wasn't holding the gun, but I killed him. Will, you didn't send his world crashing down. That was all me- you just pulled the trigger!"  
  
He looks away at the mention of shooting Will, but only momentarily. "Don't do this," he says quietly, and I'm not altogether sure of what he means.  
  
"Do what?" I lean closer and feel his heart pounding wildly against my chest, "Do I frighten you?" Does it bother you to not be the one in control?"  
  
He catches me off guard by grabbing my wrist and thrusting my hand in front of my face. I'm suprised to see it violently shaking, and I notice for the first time that my entire body is followig suit.  
  
"You're not in control," he pushes me away from him, and I fall onto my back, looking up at him as he leans over me. "Look at yourself. You're not even in control of you!"  
  
I would have been outraged at being thrown about like a ragdoll if I hadn't been completely enthralled by his expression. His eyes fixed on mine, lips slightly parted. I watched his chest rise and fall in a conscious effort to keep his breathing steady. He was just barely succeeding. The observation made my own breathing shallow, and my heart beat a little faster. Whether we acknowledged it or not, there was something undeniably changing between us. Or maybe it was there all along.  
  
"Sydney, think about what you're saying. Vaughn chose this life. He knew the risks that went along with it- with you," I flinched, and he hesitated.  
  
"The risks of being with me..." it was a statement, not a question, "Why are you associating yourself with such a danger? I've no doubt that you're capable of completing this mission without me."   
  
I shift uncomfortably under his weight while I wait for answer, a role reversal of minutes before.  
  
"Why did you so willingly leave with me before?" he retorts with a slight smile. This is very quickly becoming a torturous game- who will be the first to crack and admit to this thing that's been growing between us. "Must everything be crystal clear in black and white for you?" he presses on.  
  
"Black and white? I never claimed any of this made sense. I ran with you to Russia, and I don't even know your name."  
  
He grins and leans even closer, his body almost completely on top of mine. He lips are inches from my own, and he knows he knows that they're holding a coveted trinket just out of my reach- his name.  
  
"My name? What would that change about your opinion of me? No name could undo any of the terrible things I've put you through," his accent smooths over the words and makes them all the more taunting. I shiver. He's having far too much fun with this.  
  
It takes every drop of will power I possess not to reach up and bring his mouth to mine- pull his name from his lips with my own along with every other secret he possesses. It's as if knowing this carefully withheld secret of his would make my feelings for him make sense, and the undeniable attraction between us acceptable.  
  
"Tell me," I close my eyes and whisper, unable to face the look in his eyes as I all but admit to the power he has over me. 


	11. Chapter Ten

The sound of rain pounding on the window pulls me reluctantly from a deep, dreamless sleep. Strong arms are wrapped possessively around me, and I'm sprawled half on top of Sark who by all appearances is asleep.  
  
'Patience is a virtue, Sydney,' he'd whispered huskily in my ear the night before when I'd asked for his name, and his breath on my skin had sent shivers down my spine. Somehow, we'd made it to the bed before the last item of clothing fell, and I fell onto the bed taking him with me. I touched a finger lightly to my lips, sure he'd bruised them with his own the night before just as he'd seared every inch of my skin with his touch, though he was always careful of my shoulder.  
  
Closing my eyes, I listened to his heart pounding and the sound of the rain, remembering the night before. There were so many reasons that this shouldn't have happened, but I didn't want to think of any of them now. There would be plently of time for that later.  
  
"Syd..." Sark murmers against my shoulder some time later, and I can't help but smile at the sleepy sound of his voice.  
  
"You promised me your name," I grin, tracing a finger lightly down his arm.  
  
"This again?" he sounds incredibly amused at my persistence, "I promised you no such thing..."  
  
Turning my head, I see him smiling sleepily at me. It's an indescribable feeling to be under that gaze when his eyes aren't ice, his face void of all emotion. He's unguarded, vulnerable.. happy.  
  
"You'll tell me anyways," I predict before trailing kisses along his throat, eliciting a groan when I finally cover his mouth with my own, kissing him roughly. It would be so easy to stay in bed all day, completely forgetting the mission I know so little about. When he finally pulls away I whimper and catch his bottom lip gently with my teeth, trying to prolong the kiss for even seconds longer- not wanting the end of the warmth of his mouth on my own.  
  
"Your name..." I whisper half-heartedly as he brushes a lock of hair away from my face. I know he won't tell me yet.  
  
"Maybe after breakfast," he teases before slipping out of bed and into the bathroom to shower, leaving me tangled in the soft, white sheets and blankets. Resting my head on the pillow that smells tantalizingly like him, I close my eyes and reluctantly think about the long day ahead.  
  
If all went according to plan, this time tomarrow I would be in Sloane's hands cementing some secret deal between he and Sark. Anger bubbled within me at the thought of Arvin Sloane. Still fresh memories of every lie, betrayal, and superficial fatherly gesture convinced me that I could empty a gun in him without thinking twice- without a guilt plagued dream that night. I wouldn't be killing a man, I'd be ridding the world of a horrible monster. This never ending nightmare would finally come to an end with Sark by my side.  
  
The thought pitted an ache deep inside of me. I'd always thought Vaughn would be with me when this was all over.  
  
It's strange to think of how my motivation has changed throughout the years. I would avenge Danny's death, and make Sloane pay for stealing him away from me- atleast that's how it had started. As the years trudged on though Danny faded to the background of my motives, and the guilt of that will never leave me. It became all about revenge, my deep, white hot burning hatrid towards Sloane fueled the fight day after day. I would pull the ground out from under him with no warning like he had done to me, and he'd never again play puppeteer with a human life.  
  
And then came Vaughn. Funny how I'd once despised him, thought he was mocking me with his concern and acts of kindness. But any such feelings sunk to the bottom of the Pacific along with my pager that night on the pier. It seemed so long ago- but the memory is still crystal clear. Michael Vaughn was safety, comfort, a break from all the danger around me. He was a release from all the long hours spent guarding my words and telling lies. With Vaughn I could be honest, simply myself. I would fight any fight to topple Sloane and SD-6 and be able to enjoy those freedoms and feel complete.  
  
It was the perfect fairytale ending to kiss him for the first time- everything I imagined it would be. Sweet, cautious, safe...and all my troubles seemed to melt away.  
  
I'd always had this scene in my head about what the end of SD-6 would be like. The actual event was every bit like what I'd imagined, but for a single difference. In my daydream I'd always told Vaughn that I loved him. It had been on the tip of my tounge that day, and I'd like to think I would have meant it, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words. Even though I was finally free to be with Vaughn forever- my wish granted- there was still the emptiness inside me. Distant and easily forgettable, but still present none the less.  
  
I loved him, still love him. God, I always will... but not in that heart pounding, aching way that I'd always thought I would have.  
  
Not to say that I loved Sark, but I'd never felt so intrigued by a person ever before. So desperate to know everything about him, and even then sensing that it might not be enough. There was such a deep, unspoken understanding between us, a connection that couldn't be explained and could only have been forged by betrayals we'd both faced at the hands of Sloane and my mother. It was a twisted bond, but knowing that he was the only one who could possibly understand the darkest of thoughts in my head- and then know not to bother with petty words that could never take the nightmares away- drew me to him and wouldn't let me free. The hole deep inside me was somehow filled with his presence.  
  
"Matthew," I point a fork with a piece of pancake speared on its prongs at Sark accusatorily. He had breakfast brought to the room while I was showering, and we are now sitting on the floor eating pancakes and sipping orange juice- a makeshift picnic.  
  
He shakes his head. I'm running out of names, and consider buying a baby book if I had the time, reading off the names alphabetically from beginning to end.  
  
"William?"  
  
Somehow, he manages to swallow his orange juice before laughing, "Oh God, no! Just because I'm British doesn't mean I share my name with that-"  
  
"Okay, okay!" we're both grinning like idiots by this point. I'd even yelled names at him from the shower to which he threatened to come in and stop me. The laughter that had errupted at the innocent comment had prompted him to halfheartedly mutter something about getting my mind out of the bloody gutter.  
  
"You could just tell me and end this game," I point out, and he shakes his head.  
  
"There'd be no fun in that..."  
  
I smile and sip my orange juice, and we fall into a silence that is no longer uncomfortable, but unfortunatly soon broken.  
  
"Sydney, about last night..."  
  
I'd actually thought we might be able to avoid this discussion. Subconsciously, I tucks strands my still wet hair behind my ear and pull at the ends- a nervous habit I know I've picked up from my mother- and brace myself for him to continue. I knew we'd have to discuss this, but not this soon. Not when things felt so right.  
  
"You were upset, vulnerable. I took advantage of that-" he always holds my eyes with his own when he speaks to me, it's almost hypnotic. He does so now, but with great difficulty. Unaccustomed to owning up to his mistakes, or what he feels to be a mistake, he can hardly look me in the eyes.  
  
"I may have been upset, but I knew what I was doing..." I force myself to take a deep breath, and resist the urge to lean closer to him, kiss him and show him that way that this was no mistake made in a moment of heartache and confusion. "I have no regrets."  
  
He subtly releases a breath I didn't know he'd been holding.  
  
"What are we doing, Sydney?"  
  
The only answer I can give isn't an answer at all, "I'm not sure..."  
  
He pauses, and its clear that he's uncomfortable with his next question, and my answer. I didn't think he was capable of being unnerved, let alone by something like this.  
  
"Do you trust me?"  
  
Slowly, I shake my head, and my bathrobe slides down to reveal the bloodsoaked bandage on my shoulder. I pull it back into place before replying barely above a whisper, "No, but I want you to prove me wrong."  
  
Breakfast is finished in silence. Neither of us know what to say, but when we're through he points out that we should rebandage my shoulder, and I allow him to do so.  
  
The day is spent going over the 'mission' for tonight, and I listen to it numbly. Sark has slipped back into his professional demeanor, and he talks of me being handed over to Sloane as if I'm not a life being put in danger but a step in this complicated plan. I'm not offended; I've gone through this process too many times to be upset by the impersonal nature of it all.  
  
"The idea tonight is to get noticed. You'll be entering the club some time before me with that in your purse," he nods towards the box we'd retrieved from the museum. "Sloane will have men stationed throughout the building- it's a hot spot for black market trades, namely of Rambaldi artifacts. You want Sloane to believe that you have the intention of passing the artifact along to a CIA contact."  
  
I open my mouth to protest, to explain that no one will be there for me to meet with, but Sark interrupts.  
  
"You won't have time to worry about finding a contact."  
  
This scares me a little, but only because I don't like walking into a situation without being in complete control. Especially one that will put me at the hands of the man I despise.  
  
"I don't suppose you'll tell me what you intend to have happen..." I say evenly, trying to mask my nerves.  
  
He smiles, and I could almost call the expression sad. He's dropped the professional exterior and is again the man I remember from the night before, "When I asked you if you trusted me, Sydney, it was for a reason."  
  
We're sitting crosslegged, facing eachother on the couch. Leaning closer to me, he rests his hand lightly on the side of my face. That small gesture alone leaves me breathless.  
  
"I won't let him hurt you again..." he whispers before kissing me. Tangling my fingers in the blonde curls at the nape of his neck, I pull him to me and refuse to let go. I don't know what's going to happen tonight or when I'll see him again.  
  
In my wildest dreams I never could have imagined that the thought of losing Sark would hve pitted such a horrible ache inside of me, and I pull him closer still, feeling alone already. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

Entering the club my footsteps subconciously matched the throbbing pulse of the too loud techno music.  
  
"I'm in," I murmered to Sark through my comm. and when his voice sounded in my ear I couldn't fight the paranoid fear that one of Sloane's men might hear him too and recognize his voice.  
  
"Take a seat at the table in the far east corner," he instructed me, and I did so without question, "There's an operative- female- two tables over. The man standing by the door is Sloane's as well."  
  
I coughed twice to show that I saw each person he spoke of. Ignoring mission protocol, I was about to order a drink, suddenly feeling that I needed one, when there was a light tap on my shoulder. A waitress.  
  
"Take it," Sark whispered, so I reached for the drink from the slightly amused waitress. I could already see a note written on the cocktail napkin underneath.  
  
"The man at the bar sent this," she told me in Russian, tilting her head towards the bar before a puzzled look flashed across her face, "Well, he was there a minute ago..."  
  
I nodded, wishing she would leave, and sipped the drink while folding the napkin into the palm of my hand.  
  
Scanning the room as I thanked the waitress, I momentarily locked eyes with the woman Sark had identified as an operative. She showed no emotion but turned away after a moment and said something into her hand that made the man at the door glance in my direction a beat later. Well, if the objective was to get noticed by Sloane's men, Sark would be glad to know I succeeded in that task.  
  
"Unfold the napkin. Be sure she see you," Sark instructed evently, and I found it oddly difficult to complete such a seemingly simple task when I had been trained for so long not to be caught.  
  
Written in a blocky print, void of personality and nothing like Sark's elegant script, were instructions written in one of the CIA's numerous codes. It told of a chance of plans and instructed me to deadrop the artifact (hidden in my purse) on the third bathroom sink to be retrieved by another agent.  
  
It was in that moment that I fully realized the purpose of this seemingly pointless mission. I was mere seconds from being "caught" by Sark. A peace offering coupled with proof of his loyalty to Sloane. The Rambaldi artifact I clutched in my purse- that I'd nearly died for- was nothin more than authenticity. A bonus that Sloane would greedily accept and hopefully be blinded by.  
  
I'd pulled the same stunt just a few years earliar whn I'd stormed into Sloane's office with hair that matched the blood on my sweater and thrown a model of the Circumference before him.  
  
As I worked my way through the crowds of dancing people, the thought of betrayal briefly crossed my mind just to be crushed by the memory of Sark's sleepy smile and the emotion in his eyes when he'd first woken and found me in his arms just that morning. The love there was impossible to feign.  
  
An inner voice chided me and pointed out that this was Sark and listed all of the horrible, cold heared things he'd done for his own personal gain, and then it felt the need to laugh at me further for thinking that such love could even form over the course of three days- remind me that I hadn't even mourned Vaughn. It was a voice that sounded remarkably like my father's, and I fought it down with the belief that nothing in my life was conventional. That time spanned oddly during extreme circumstances.  
  
I would not believe that Sark was betraying me, I told myself when I set the purse on the soapy, white sink and studied my reflection.  
  
A woman barely recognizable stared back at me. A brunette with jagged, chin length hair and golden makeup wearing a black silk dress with a high oriental collar that was made revealing only by its cling to her body and the slits that went just too high to be classy. Sydney Bristow never would have worn it, but the woman I faced wore it boldly.   
  
Sydney Bristow would have escaped silently threw the window and called her father for backup, but this woman- there was no telling what this woman would do.  
  
Taking a deep breath I spun on my heel and left the washroom, heading for the exit as I would have normally done after a deadrop, just to be stopped by Sark's hand on my wrist.  
  
"Miss Bristow," he addressed me cooly, and I immediatly noted the female operative standing at his side.  
  
  
  
I moved to wrench my hand away, but he tightened his grip and nodded towards the upstairs bar, seperate only by the staircase and balcony.   
  
"I wouldn't make any sudden movements," he advised, "You have five men with guns trained on you upstairs, just waiting for the word." He tapped the comm. in his ear- our comm.- for emphasis.  
  
"What do you want?" I asked in a voice that was truly strained. The deadly way he spoke made it difficult to stick with my previous belief that this was no betrayal. If that was a case and there were men in the rafters, what would I do then?  
  
"You have something I want," he tells me, the same cool calculating tone in his voice, "Hand it over and you may leave unharmed."  
  
I held my hands up to show I was hiding nothing, and told him so- explicitly.  
  
"I believe you left a purse in the washroom, Miss Bristow. Retrieve it for me, and you can go."   
  
"Because you're a man of your word," I tell him with icy sarcasm, spinning on my heels to retrieve the purse, aware of the blonde female operative following behind.  
  
Purse in hand, I decided that I would not fight this woman as I would have in any other situation. It wasn't the handgun she held that made this decision, as I could have easily disarmed her, but the overwhelming desire for this to just go as smoothly as possible for Sark and myself.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sark's voice murmered in my ear, and looking up I saw with some suprise that the operative's gun was about to come down in a well placed blow to the back of my head. There was a dull pain in the back of my head, and my last thought before everything faded to black was that I wondered if Sark had ever before said that he was sorry... 


	13. Chapter Twelve

It's bitterly cold. An endless field of nothing but snow on the ground and more falling lazily from the sky to add to what must already be atleast a foot of glittering fluff. The sun reflects off of the endless white from between the clouds and the glare bounces into my eyes. With one hand I shield my eyes, using my other to hug my body and keep warm as best I can. Cold is an understatement. The wind swirling the snowflakes about me stings and I'm certain my skin is moments from freezing.  
  
I'm hardly dressed for the weather. Aside from not having sunglasses, my only clothing is a simple white silk slip that falls above my knees. Something to sleep in on a warm summer's night, not to wear for protection from an icy wind and a long hike through a blizzard's aftermath. Not even slippers, I whisper to myself in disbelief with a glance at where my feet should be. They've dissappeared under the snow.  
  
I'm vaguely aware that I'm here- wherever this place might be. Antarctica? The Alaskan tundra?- for a purpose and sure enough I finger the comm. in my ear with numb fingertips and manage to switch it on.  
  
"Hello, can you hear me? Where the hell am I?" the words escape shakily through purple lips, and I begin to wander in no particular direction just for movement's sake. I'll surely freeze to death if I stay put.  
  
After a matter of seconds that seemed much longer the sound of radio static and a far away voice fills my ear, "Syd... copy? ...you're location. Don't-" The static took over and drowned out the voice recognizable as my mother.  
  
"No, I don't copy! You're breaking up. Don't do what?"  
  
More static with a barely distinguishable word sprinkled amongst the frusterating noise.  
  
"...east..."  
  
Okay, then. That's something. It doesn't seem odd that there's a silver compass suddenly in my hand, and using it I change directions and trudge eastward for atleast two miles. The cold is still there, but it's easily forgettable now, and doesn't seem to be having much effect. Surely I should be frost bitten by now...  
  
Some time later I come upon the entrance to a snowy cavern. It's impossible to fight the sense deja vu at this somehow familar place, and it's frustrating that I just can't place it.  
  
Entering the labyrinth of snowy tunnels I feel understandably ridiculous, but never the less voice a cautious "hello?" that echoes off of the cavern walls. A mistake I instantly regret, for the cavern floor cracks at the sound of my voice and I'm falling. Falling and attempting to scream, though I'm now unable to make a sound.  
  
I dizzily think of Alice sliding down the rabbit hole, but the thought is abruptly cut off when I land on a suprisingly soft bed elaboratly carved of ice. Someone is already lying beside my and his arm slips around my waist and pulls my close. I'm thankful for the warmth of his body, yet can't fight the deja vu that washes over me once more. I glance down at the hand on my stomach, not sure of what I'm expecting to see him holding. It's a relief to see that his hand is empty, and I watch curiously as he slides his hand to my side and turns me gently onto my back before pinning my wrists to either side.  
  
Heart racing, I look up to see his face for the first time and find myself looking into familiar and appropriately ice blue eyes.  
  
Sark.  
  
He leans over me and presses his lips to my forehead. They're shockingly cold, more so than the long forgotten tundra of before, and I can't stifle a breathless gasp.  
  
-------------  
  
I wake up to the feel of ice wrapped in a damp cloth being dabbed across my forehead, and immediatly throw my hands up to push it away. My head is pounding and the ice only worsens it. My hands won't move.   
  
I jump panickedly before spy training kicks in. I blink my eyes open to assess my surroundings, and the person dabbing at my aching temples. My hands are bound to the headboard of the small bed I'm lying on, the room is horribly bright, and for that reason I'm thankful for Sark leaning over me. Blocking the light flooding the sparse room from shining into my eyes.  
  
Opening my mouth to demand answers, I'm dissappointed at myself for my inability to speak. The pain in my head reduces my questions to a quiet moan, and he grimaces as if it's he who is in so much pain.   
  
"You son of a bitch..." I murmer quietly, squeezing my eyes shut. I don't know what else to say, and it's hard to concentrate. The thought drifts through my mind that I must be drugged.  
  
I know if I opened my eyes I would see his trademark smirk as he responds humorlessly with his familiar sarcasm, "Well, I've never been called that before..."  
  
If my hands weren't bound I would slap him. If my hands weren't bound and I could actually keep anything in focus... I shake my head to clear it, and instantly regret it. The nausea is overwhelming, and I'm terrified of what I've been drugged up with. He knows I feel sick and offers me water to which I raise my cuffed hands above my head halfheartedly.  
  
"I wouldn't advise trying anything," he tells me with a glance at a security camera in the corner as he helps me to a sitting positon. It's a ludicrous statement as sitting up has dizzied me even further, and my hands are now clasped behind my neck uselessly, still cuffed to a metal bar behind me. I'm positive I'm going to either vomit or pass out. He presses a glass of cool water to my lips and I drink from it cautiously with eyes fixed on his. They reveal nothing.  
  
"Where's Sloane?" I ask finally, with deliberate effort to sound as unnerved by the situation as possible. I won't let him know that I'm afraid. That I'm scared that I've really been betrayed.  
  
"Sloane," he repeats with a smooth, arrogant tone. It's becoming easier by the second to pretend that I despise him. "What makes you think Sloane is here?"  
  
I look at him questioningly, willing him to answer the question of what this is all about. Is this still part of the illusive 'plan' that I'm steadily losing faith in, or have I been played? Or is this something else entirely? He refuses to look me in the eyes.  
  
"Yes, Sloane," I repeat with a tone that barely keeps my anger in check, dangerously close to letting it bubble over, "You're still his favorite little lap dog, aren't you? Won't he be thrilled to see what you've brought him?"  
  
He pauses before answering boredly, "Yes, I should hope he would be."  
  
His eyes flick up to meet mine at the word 'hope.' I convince myself that it couldn't have been coincidence. He's trying to warn me of something.  
  
The opprotunity to decipher what that warning is though is lost on me, for at that moment the heavy door opposite us swings open, and Sloane is standing in the doorway.  
  
"Sydney, it's been far too long," he says my name in the same endearing, parental way he's always used. I hope the poisonously look I shoot him adequately portrays how much I despise him.  
  
I know it's not my imagination when I see Sark take a quiet, shaky breath before turning to greet his employer, and it scares me more than anything that's happened thus far. 


End file.
